


if i'm on fire (how am i so deep in love?)

by redvinyl



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Chapter 1 is sfw, Cousin Incest, Dirty Talk, Drinking Games, Drunkenness, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Fix-It of Sorts, Fluff, I Can't Believe I Wrote This, I Will Go Down With This Ship, Implied Political Jon, Jon is a lovey/touchy drunk, Jonsaweek, Light Dom/sub, Praise Kink, R Plus L Equals J, Requited Love, Sansa likes it, Sharing a Bed, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, Vague Spanking, chapter 1 is fine as a sfw standalone though, chapter 2 is not, it fits loosely but it still works OKAY, jonsa, seriously there is a big jump between drunken fluff and sober smut, so bear that in mind if smut isnt for you, this was for the jonsa week prompt Winterfell, vague choking, vague incest themes but only a tiny bit, yes i know this is super early for jonsaweek but i really wanted to post it lol
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-27
Updated: 2020-04-13
Packaged: 2021-01-04 10:47:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21196400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redvinyl/pseuds/redvinyl
Summary: Jon and Sansa play a drinking game after the War for the Dawn. Sansa is sure her feelings for Jon aren't reciprocated, but Jon’s actions seem to say differently. Is it just the alcohol, or something more?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is my second fic! I know it took me about 50 years to get this done but its here nevertheless. Just like with my first fic, this one is inspired by a prompt I saw on tumblr. It's not exactly like the post I saw, but it's near enough. It was from tumblr user @justreddz so thank you so much to them!
> 
> The prompt is:  
"Jon and Sansa having a conversation during the Winterfell feast. Maybe them joking around prompted by Tormund's or Tyrion's lewd jokes, and reminiscing the pranks of their childhood. They have a drinking challenge with each other, the same game as Tyrion's. Jon's guess about Sansa was wrong so he starts downing first with a horn of goat's milk. And Sansa cheers him on and chants "Snow! Snow! Snow!" And then it's Sansa's turn to guess, she guesses wrong so she drank, chugging Jon's favorite ale with Jon chanting "Stark! Stark! Stark!" It's the least they can do to mend the rift between them after Jon gave up the North."
> 
> I'm thinking about adding a NSFW chapter 2, but for now this work is pretty safe and fluffy. Let me know if you'd like a part 2!
> 
> Enjoy! :)
> 
> Title from Trampoline by Shaed

The War for the Dawn had been hard won. 

As Sansa sat in the warmth of Winterfell’s great hall she couldn’t help but feel the weight of the missing faces she’d grown accustomed to whilst Jon was on Dragonstone. Many of the lords had become a great source of comfort for her in a time where she’d felt exceedingly lonely, and now, they’d given her the gift of her life by paying with theirs.

Sansa had taken to sitting with the common folk at the lower tables, sacrificing her seat at the high table for Tyrion Lannister who was currently muttering soothing words to his Queen. Even in the populated hall they sat isolated and alone. Daenerys clearly wasn’t responding well to Tyrion’s attempt at calming her, judging by the detached, paranoid way she was gazing around the room anytime someone attempted to lighten the sombre mood with a joke or a smile. Though she wasn’t close with her by any means, Sansa could understand the way she felt. She had seen how broken Daenerys was when telling her advisors of Ser Jorah’s fate, and Sansa couldn’t help but sympathise, thinking of Theon and all they’d suffered and survived together. 

Regardless of the way that she or Daenerys felt, Sansa knew that what was needed in the room now was not the cold dampener of sorrowful silence. Of course, those who had passed in the war needed to be mourned, but stewing in pained quiet was not helping anyone, least of all those who had lost the people close to them. 

Sansa wasn’t entirely familiar with the Essosi ways of dealing with grief, but what she was familiar with was pain, and the ways to distract from it. The _necessity_ of distracting from it, at least for a night. So, after a moment of considered silence she turned towards the raucous wildling with the shining eyes and the hair redder than hers and cleared her throat.

“Forgive me,” she began, distracting the wildling from his drinking horn, “it’s awfully quiet in here. Would you be able to teach us a drinking game, to liven our spirits? After all, a battle has been won. It only stands to reason that we should be celebrating, should we not?” Certainly, Sansa would not have taken part under any other circumstance. Jon clearly knew this too, if the silent quirk of his brows from the opposite side of the table was anything to go by, but Sansa found that this only encouraged her more. 

The wildling, Tormund she’d heard him be called, reached out and clapped a big hand on Sansa’s back, grinning. “Finally someone has the balls to stop this stupid moping!” He guffawed. “Who would have thought it would be the pretty lady and not the King himself?” He said to Jon who was clearly trying to hide his laughter. Sansa couldn’t help but smile slightly too, even as she could feel Daenerys’ anger at not being included, and at Jon being addressed as King. Perhaps she was smiling _because_ of that, but that was a fact she wasn’t willing to admit to anyone besides herself.

Tormund began rattling off the rules and Sansa recognised this as one of Tyrion’s games. She’s sure Tormund must have played it with him before the War for the Dawn and listening to the rules it seemed straightforward enough. You make an observation about someone in the group. If it’s right, they drink, if it’s wrong, you do. It doesn’t take long for the hall to be filled with excited chatter as everyone breaks up into small groups. Sansa suppresses her smile as Jon joins her group with Tormund, Davos and, begrudgingly, Brienne. Sansa expects that she only joined in an attempt to protect her from Tormund’s crudeness, although Sansa suspects very little of that will be directed towards her, if the way Tormund is smiling at Brienne is anything to go by.

Before long, everyone has a drink in hand. Jon, Davos and Brienne have opted for ale, Sansa for wine, and Tormund, of course, for his fermented goats’ milk. Everyone looks to Tormund to begin the observations due to his familiarity with the game, and he turns to Brienne with a smile on his face that reminds Sansa of an excited puppy. She can’t help but feel a twinge of sadness for the man as he sees Brienne’s uninterested reaction. She knows what it’s like to have unreciprocated feelings. Subconsciously her eyes fall upon Jon. He’s watching Tormund with a small smile on his face, his eyes warm. Before she can get too caught up in watching him, Tormund makes his observation.

“You’re the most beautiful woman in all of the country.” He says confidently, leaning back with that same dopey smile on his face. Brienne’s brow furrows more, and gruffly she responds. “I am no beauty. Drink.” Before Tormund can respond Davos interjects.

“Beauty is a subjective matter, is it not? Who is to say you are not the most beautiful woman in Westeros?” Tormund grins in agreement and Brienne blushes as she relents and takes a small sip of her ale, if only to make the game move on. Sansa smiles, nonetheless.

Next, Davos turns to Jon. After a moment of silence, he clears his throat. “You’ve only been in love once.” Jon shifts his gaze and inspects his ale for a long moment to hide his face before he grumbles in a low voice. “Twice. Drink.” Sansa can’t help the excited pull in her stomach as she thinks of the implications of this. Jon had spoken to her briefly of his first love, a wildling girl he met when he was north of the Wall, but never of a second. The fluttering in her gut turns to trepidation as the Dragon Queen stands and leaves the hall with Tyrion rushing behind, and Jon’s eyes trail after her. She tries not to dwell on it, after trying so hard to lighten the mood she does not wish to be a dampener, so when Jon shifts his attention back to her and his expression turns thoughtful she forces a smile onto her face. “Come on, Jon. Do your worst.”

Jon grins and Sansa is taken aback for a moment by his handsomeness. Sitting in the warm candlelit glow of the hall his eyes look soft and golden, and the flickering light catches on his loose curls. She’s struck by how much he looks like a boy of six and ten again, yearning to leave for the Nights Watch. It’s only in moments like these when Sansa truly realises how little Jon smiles. Of course, she knows he’s broody and contemplative, but she feels the weight of this the most when she’s basking in the glow of one of his few breathtaking true grins, as though everything is easy and right in the world. Like there isn’t a Dragon and a Lion fighting for their home. Like there isn’t a winter storm raging outside. She’s sure she’s staring at him like an utter fool and she hasn’t even had a drink yet, so it takes all her energy to school her features into a more composed expression. 

Jon’s grin turns thoughtful. He’s still staring at her with that soft expression that does something funny to Sansa’s heart. Something she’s unused to even with years of experience of men’s eyes upon her. As usual, Jon takes his time, measuring his thoughts and words, and finally, when Sansa’s sure her face has gone redder than her hair, he speaks.

“Do you remember when we’d play Monsters and Maidens?” Sansa nods in reply, memories of childhood laughter and babbling brooks echoing in her mind. Images of grass stained dresses and Arya’s muddy knees. Robb’s eyes lighting up when she’d break character and splash him with the steaming water of the hot springs, Bran and Rickon playing until they sunk into the snow with exhaustion and rosy cheeks. And Jon. Always Jon. Shaking his sulkiness to be the Prince Aemon the Dragonknight to her Queen Naerys, helping Robb carry her back to the castle when she’d slipped and scraped her elbow, telling her how radiant she looked when he’d found her with twigs in her hair and tears in her eyes, just to see her smile again. It all seemed so far away now. 

Jon’s smiling so wide he has those crinkles by his eyes that make Sansa’s heart swell. “Do you remember when Arya shoved Robb into the springs for putting her on the maiden’s team?” Sansa asks, if only to keep Jon smiling for a little bit longer. She’s rewarded with Jon’s laughter and she can’t help but join him, the other members of their group smiling too. Tormund takes a swig from his horn and laughingly declares that if Jon doesn’t get on with his observation he’ll shove _him_ into the hot springs, which earns another laugh from everyone. 

If only to mollify Tormund, Jon shifts his features back into the soft smile he seems to reserve for her. “You preferred sewing with Septa Mordane to playing Maidens and Monsters.” Jon says and Sansa pauses for a moment to consider the truth of the statement. Yes, she did enjoy the Winterfell sewing circle, and the artistry of needlework is still a great source of comfort for her, but it doesn’t hold a candle to Bran and Rickon’s bickering and Arya’s messy hair. Robb’s lopsided grins or Jon’s quiet kindness. No, Sansa thinks. Very little could compare to that. She locks eyes with Jon and tips her head towards his ale as if to say _drink_, and Jon’s eyebrows quirk but his smile perseveres, taking a gulp of his ale, his eyes never leaving hers.

The group turns to Sansa as her turn comes around. Jon’s warm eyes are still locked upon her so she pauses to glance down at his still full tankard and smirks when an idea comes to her. “You can’t finish your ale without taking a breath.” She says, knowing that no matter what, Jon will have to drink. Tormund and Davos seem impressed by her idea, and even Brienne lets a small smile slip through. Jon’s eyes widen and he looks down at his full glass before chuckling and picking it up, raising it in the air in a toast. 

He begins to gulp down the drink and Sansa can’t help but begin to cheer for him. Soon, all four of them, even Brienne, are chanting his name - _“Snow! Snow! Snow!”_ \- and before long Jon slams the empty tankard back onto the table to elated cheers from their small group. Sansa grins at his flushed cheeks and how he raises his arms as if to say, _that was easy, Sansa._

After a few more rounds, everyone is well and truly feeling the buzz, none more-so than Jon who’s taken the brunt of the drinks for them all. Still, Tormund is so tipsy that he’s flirting incessantly with Brienne, who’s drunkenness does nothing to add to her interest in him, and Davos looks as though he’s about to fall asleep. Brienne offers Sansa an apologetic smile and stands to leave in an attempt to dodge Tormund’s growing affection, and the wildling stands and stumbles after her before getting distracted by the Hound sitting alone at another table. Davos stands and yawns before taking his leave to retire to his chambers, and all of a sudden Sansa realises how the hall has emptied out, with her and Jon being one of the last small clusters of people remaining. Sansa’s sure she can hear voices outside and it makes her smile to think that her people are continuing on the festivities elsewhere.

Jon has still got that dopey smile on his face that makes Sansa’s stomach do a little flip and she can’t help but giggle at his clear inebriation. Jon’s words are slurred when he says, “you laugh so prettily, Sansa,” which only serves to make her laugh more (and yes, fine, maybe blush a little). Jon’s response is to pout playfully like a toddler, and Sansa refuses to acknowledge how charmed she is by it. “We need to get you to bed, Jonathan.” She says, a tad drunk herself, but ever the responsible one. “Come on,” she says, standing and walking around the table to help him do the same. “Let’s get you back to your chambers.”

Hauling him to his feet is surprisingly easy, and she finds she quite enjoys the weight of him leaning on her. An unbidden part of her mind says that she wouldn’t mind feeling his weight upon her in other ways as well, and Sansa is too drunk to tell that part of her brain to sod off, so she finds herself smiling like a fool for the umpteenth time since their drinking game began. 

Jon gazes at her openly with a smirk on his face. “My chambers? Why not _our_ chambers?” He says through his drunkenness, and Sansa laughs it off because dwelling on it might give her poor heart too much hope. “Sansa.” He whines at her lack of reply, but she just continues to slowly move them towards their beds, and so he just returns to his open ogling of her.

“You seemed so happy tonight.” Jon says. “It was nice. I like seeing you be happy, Sansa.” She blushes and forces herself to ignore the fact that the alcohol has only makes his accent stronger, and the way he’s pronouncing her name sends tingles down to her toes. _Sanz-uh_. “I like seeing you smile, love.” He says, and Sansa’s heart is either having a breakdown or throwing a party. She can’t tell which one, but either way, her mind tells her it’s probably not good. Even so, her whole being seems to be shouting it - _love, love, love_. He called you his _love_.

“I like seeing you smile, too.” She responds after a beat. “You don’t do it nearly enough. It only makes you look more handsome.” Jon hums in reply, the tips of his ears turning pink, but still his lips are pressed in a smirk. 

“_More_ handsome, hey?” He grins and she rolls her eyes to downplay her red cheeks. Soon enough, the pair fall into a comfortable silence and Jon wraps an arm around Sansa’s waist. She’s sure it’s just to make them more stable and nothing more. After all, he is stumbling a lot, it only makes sense. Still, who’s to say she can’t enjoy the feel of it? His arm is so strong and steady and warm, and Sansa finds herself leaning into Jon’s touch, just to feel more of it against her. He smells of pine and ale and _home_ and Sansa could weep if it wasn’t so sweet.

Together, they make their way through Winterfell’s halls until they finally reach the chambers next to Sansa’s that Jon has taken for his own. 

“Help me with the door, Jon.” She says, reaching down to unlock it and let them inside. Jon pulls the door open and together they stumble into his warm chambers before closing and barring the door behind them. Sansa fully intends to deposit Jon into his bed and make her way through the door that joins their rooms to pass out herself, but as she pulls Jon to his furs he sinks into them and wraps his arms around her, pulling her to him so that she’s standing between his thighs. He rests his head against her and lets out a small hum that reverberates through Sansa and sends a strange warmth to her core. 

“Stay with me tonight, Sansa.” He mumbles almost shyly into her stomach and Sansa can’t resist lifting one of her hands and threading her fingers through his soft curls, earning her another satisfied hum from Jon. She swears she hears him whisper something about wishing to hold her, and Sansa feels heat rising to her cheeks. Jon turns his head, so his eyes are looking into hers, and she keeps gently playing with his hair. “I haven’t slept well since the last time you...” He says quietly, trailing off, and Sansa knows exactly what he means.

When they were marching from Castle Black to Winterfell it wasn’t unusual for her to slip into his tent and beneath his furs, seeking comfort from the shadowy clutches of her nightmares. Sansa knows Jon has them too, they’re both haunted by the terrors that they’ve lived, but somehow they didn’t seem so real when Jon’s arms were around her, and her back was pressed to his chest. If it were up to Sansa she never would have stopped visiting him, but the boundaries of propriety came crashing down upon her when she saw the faces of her father’s bannermen, and so she’d spent her nights in the lonely bed that once belonged to her parents, whilst Jon slept a wall away, both of them restless.

A cruel part of her buzzes with smugness at knowing that even when the Dragon Queen was warming his bed, Jon’s nights were still tormented by the ghosts of his past. That Sansa was the only one with whom he could sleep without fears of black cloaks and knives consuming him. The part of her that’s more Cersei and Petyr than Ned and Catelyn whispers dangerous things in her mind, and not for the first time she doesn’t have the strength to brush them away. Instead, she focusses back in on Jon, who’s looking up at her with such a mixture of hope and adoration that her body seems to react for her, nodding softly.

“Alright,” she whispers, quiet enough that a soft breeze could carry her words away. “I’ll stay."


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well... here I am yet again apologising for a huge wait between updates. Sorry!
> 
> For some reason, this chapter was really hard for me to write. It took a very long time of me just slowly chipping away at it to get it to the point it's at now, but I hope you all enjoy it nevertheless.
> 
> This chapter has a small section that is inspired by a scene from Atonement, so if it seems familiar, that's why. I took one piece of dialogue from the movie as well, because the scene it's from still sticks with me to this day, but if you haven't seen the movie - don't worry! It doesn't spoil anything.
> 
> With all that being said, enjoy this utter filth that I can't believe I've written.

Sansa wakes to the warmth of fresh spring sun on her face.

It takes her hungover brain a moment to adjust, opening her eyes to a foreign room. Panic threatens to overwhelm her confusion, when she notices a familiar arm slung low around her waist. The hard plains of Jon's chest at her back. She doesn't wish to acknowledge how quickly such a simple observation soothes her fraying nerves, for reading too far into it will only offer her answers that she does not want to hear. Especially with him so close.

To distract herself, she finds her gaze flitting around the chamber before settling on a sliver of sky visible through the crack in Jon's shutters. She smiles at seeing it a promising shade of blue. It still surprises her how quickly the change from desolate Northern winter to hopeful golden spring is happening. Strange to think that before long the ever present snows surrounding the castle will melt, and soon the glass gardens won't be the only place where Northern crops may flourish. Even so, the past Winter has caused the Dornish lemon that Sansa so dearly loves to whither and struggle, even within the safety of the greenhouse. The best fruit it bore all season was no bigger than an acorn, and was as hard as a rock. She finds herself grinning at the thought that soon the warmth of spring will mean the kitchens will restart their production of lemon cakes.

The light of the sun starts to jar painfully in her foggy, post drunken brain, so she closes her eyes to stave off her impending wine fuelled headache. Unfortunately for her, this just heightens her other senses, and at present they're all enamoured with the proximity of Jon. She takes a deep breath through her nose to try and calm her beating heart, but the scent of the grey Northern soap Jon favours only serves to trigger her memories of last night.

The feast, the drinking game-- _Jon_. And his confession. That he only sleeps soundly with her at his side. With her in his arms. Even now it makes her feel funny. _Strange_, as though she's made of feathery down, wafting in a Summer breeze. The way she feels when the tang of a fresh lemon cake graces her lips. Better, even.

Sansa shakes her head slightly to rid herself of the incessant, love struck thoughts that plague her. The thoughts of a naive little girl who still deemed princes gallant and queens trustworthy. It won't do to dwell on the past when she must figure out how to extract herself from her current dilemma.

She could try to slip free of Jon's arms and rush through the door that divides their two chambers, spending her day avoiding him in the hopes that she somehow forgets the nature of her feelings for him. _But_, she supposes, he is sure to wake up before she makes it into the safety of her own room, and his early morning, hungover confusion will only force her to confront whatever it is they have been dancing around. So, that leaves her with her only other choice. Stay in Jon's arms, pretend not to have woken at all, and wait for him to arise and deal with the situation for her. 

_Yes_, this seems like the appropriate plan of action. It certainly isn't because Sansa is enjoying the feel of Jon's muscled body wrapped around her. And it is _most definitely_ not because she's noticed what is proudly pressing into her behind. She's not _stupid_, alright? She knows how on occasion men can arise to find themselves... _overly alert_, but that doesn't mean she should draw attention to it. Besides, it's just another wonderful reason why Sansa should leave the decision making surrounding how to react to their predicament to Jon. She doesn't want to _embarrass_ him after all. So what if the feel of it, hard and needy, is inspiring something similar to bubble up within her core? It doesn't mean anything that the feel of his breath on her neck is causing shivers to tingle down her spine. Nor is it relevant how the little rasp of a grunt he releases when she shifts her body _just so_ causes a strange feeling of triumph to echo through her bones.

Sansa can't help but let out a pleased sigh as she shifts against him again, pressing her body back into his. It just feels so good, and it's been such a long time since she's felt such pleasure. She's almost set into a steady rhythm when Jon's hand shoots out to grasp her waist, stilling her, his gruff morning voice low and deep from arousal when he murmurs her name. "Sansa," he rasps, "Sansa, what're you doing, sweet?"

Even if Jon's hands weren't grasping her waist tight, as though one more movement from her could shatter them both, Sansa would be frozen deathly still. In her moment of panic, she closes her eyes and pretends to still be deep in the clutches of sleep and not the clutches of Jon. For a blissful moment she thinks that it has worked, but he's caught onto her, and he rolls so that she is under him, arms shifting from her waist to the sides of her head.

"Sansa," he repeats, and even behind her eyelids she knows he is scrutinising her face, looking for any chink in her armour. "I know you're awake, sweetling. Look at me, please." Her heart leaps at his term of endearment, but she can't ruminate on it for long because the desperation in his darkened voice catches her off guard.

Slowly, she opens her eyes. She's so timid and embarrassed that it takes her several beats to shift her gaze up from his chest to meet his. She opens her mouth to shower him with apologies, but her breath hitches when she sees the dark, lustful glint in his eyes that he is clearly trying to suppress. Suddenly, all she can think of is how Jon is above her, just in his breeches, and she is below him in just her shift. Still, she tries her best. 

"Jon, I-," she swallows at the breathless state of her voice, before clearing her throat, persisting. "I'm so sorry, I don't know what came over me. I just," she pauses, searching for the right way to present herself sincerely without bearing all too much. "Well, I suppose I forgot what it was like to be so close to someone who I trust so fully. I know how it looks but I swear I wasn't trying to take advantage of you... I just- _oh Jon_, what must you think of me?" Sansa fumbles, bringing her hands up to cover her face in shame. She hasn't missed how his intense gaze has never left hers, even through her whole rushed apology. Even still, she isn't expecting him to shift back onto his haunches and bring his hands to her wrists, gently tugging them away from her face.

He pauses, bringing his intense gaze to hers again. "I could never think less of you Sansa." He says, before turning his head from her, suddenly sheepish. "It wouldn't be right for me to judge you harshly when I have imagined this more times than I'd care to admit." He confesses, softly. Darkly. Colour rises to his cheeks, but before Sansa can think to react, he presses on. "For the longest time I thought it was my bastard blood causing my depravity, but now I don't even have that to blame. I'm just, well I suppose my true heritage makes more sense now, doesn't it?" He says, forlornly, and Sansa's heart aches for him.

"Hey," she says, quietly, taking one of her hands from his grip and bringing it to cup his cheek, caressing gently. "You are a Stark. More Stark than any of us now." She smiles, trying to comfort him the only way she knows how, but Jon just shakes his head softly.

"I used to want nothing more than to be a full Stark in truth. I'd dream about it sometimes. Father calling me into his solar and telling me he'd written to Robert to have me legitimised." Sansa smiles gently at the honesty in his admission. The vulnerability. "But now... well I'm not so sure anymore." He says, bringing his eyes back to hers, somehow even more intense than before. "You understand what I'm trying to tell you, don't you Sansa? I... well, some part of me, deep down, was relieved when Sam told me the truth of my birth." Sansa finds herself nodding, despite the cryptic nature of his confession.

There's a charged moment between them, eyes locked and Sansa's hand pressed to his cheek. She's forgotten that Jon's still holding one of her wrists until he lets it go, moving his hand back to her waist.

"Yes, I know exactly." She breathes, and Jon brings his eyes back to hers from where he was watching his hand wrapping around her waist. Their breathing is heavy and mingled, and Jon opens his mouth to say something more, but Sansa is tired of dancing around him. 

"Sansa-" Jon begins, voice rough and low once more, but now is not the time for words, Sansa decides, before crashing her lips to his. 

Jon lets out a muffled moan into her mouth, clearly surprised, but just as Sansa is starting to doubt herself, he brings his hands back up to beside her head, hovering over her, and kisses her back in kind.

Suddenly, it feels as though everything is both spinning out from beneath her, and falling into place simultaneously. _This_. This is how you're supposed to be kissed. With passion and warmth, not with reluctance, stolen by wormy lips. She's just thinking how she never wants to stop when Jon tears his lips from hers. 

His face is so close to hers that she can still feel his breath washing over her, see hers swaying the ends of his loose curls. Their breathing is mingled and heavy, the two of them panting, darkened eyes running over one another with barely restrained want.

"Sansa," He repeats, and even with their foreheads pressed together she can still see the way his eyes fall down to her lips before he forces them back to her eyes. "I don't want to hurt you." He says, his voice low and dark in a way Sansa has never heard, and for some illogical reason she finds herself not caring whether Jon hurts her or not. In fact, even as he says it her mind presents her with countless filthy images - Jon with his hand wrapped around her throat as he buries his cock deep into her cunt. Jon bending her over the small council table as he takes her from behind, spanking her for teasing him during a meeting. The sound of his Northern brogue telling her what a good little girl she is for begging on her knees for him. She has to suppress a shiver when she locks her eyes back with his.

"There is very little I wouldn't let you do to me, Jon." She says, voice breathless and seductive in a way she can't recognise. The sound of it makes Jon let out a needy growl and his lips move almost imperceptibly closer, now just a hairs breadth from hers. Sansa is almost convinced that he's going to kiss her again, but he still holds himself back, ever honourable.

"I don't think you know what that means, my sweet. You don't know what I've imagined." He says, still in the rough, darkened way that is soiling her small clothes.

"Then show me." She murmurs and Jon's resolve must break because he brings his lips back to hers for another desperate kiss. Just as Sansa lets out a whimper into his mouth, he trails his lips down to her jaw and around to the shell of her ear.

"Not this time, sweetling." He says, and Sansa can't even be disappointed because he continues. "No, when I first take you I'm going to go slow. I want to watch as your face twists in pleasure. As your lips cry out my name. As your body writhes with my each and every thrust." He husks, and Sansa shivers, pressing her face into his neck to hide how red she's sure her cheeks are. She can't resist sighing out his name when he brings his lips back to her neck, and he hums.

"That's right, Sansa. Good girl, my sweet." He rumbles, and Sansa tugs his face from her neck just so she can kiss him again.

Jon grunts a little as she brings her hand up to his chest, pushing him just enough that his lips lift from hers, almost as quickly as they arrived. He raises his eyebrows in question, but Sansa only smiles teasingly before bringing her hands up to the ties of her shift, slowly loosening the knots. Jon's eyes go wide with desire, and Sansa's lips quirk as she watches him. Even as she undoes her shift and pulls it off, his eyes are glued to hers, and Sansa can feel the sheer heat of his gaze burning her, both a dragon and a wolf at once. Sansa gives him a small smile, brows raised, as if to grant him permission to look upon her, and _look_ Jon does. His eyes drag down to her lips, before shifting to her breasts, before catching and lingering on her cunt, and Sansa can feel the weight of his gaze just as heavy as if he were exploring her skin with his hands.

Jon lets out a curse, tearing his eyes from her body and bringing them back to her face, crashing his lips to hers. "Fuck, Sansa. So perfect. _Radiant_. Better than I could have ever imagined." He rambles against her lips, and Sansa brings her hands down to his breeches, fiddling with the ties as Jon slips his fingers to where she's wet and wanting, tracing a line through her folds.

"You're soaked for me, Sansa." He whispers huskily, and Sansa lets out a whimper. "So good, love. You're such a good girl for me." He praises as he begins to circle her clit. "I wonder, sweetling, if you would have been this wet for me if I were still your bastard brother." Jon murmurs into her ear, and Sansa can't help but arch her back and moan at the sheer filth in his words. When she opens her eyes, panting, Jon is chuckling darkly, and he leans back into her ear, lips brushing against it, as he whispers, "I'll take that as a yes, sweet girl."

Sansa can't think straight. All that slips from her lips is a litany of '_please_' and '_yes, just like that_' and '_Jon_'. Jon seems to be enjoying her pleasured ramblings, for he slips a finger into her, easing it in slowly as he watches her face. Sansa arches her head back into the pillow, eyes fluttering closed as her brows furrow in pleasure. Jon slides another finger in, pumping it in and out a little faster, causing Sansa to open her eyes. When she finds Jon studying her face, leaned in close enough to see how black his eyes are, Sansa clenches around his fingers and Jon smirks. "So desperate and needy for me, aren't you Sansa? You're practically begging to be filled." Sansa whines at that, her gaze trapped on his.

"Jon," she says, needy, and his smirk turns into a roguish grin as his slips his fingers from her core, earning him another whimper.

Sansa's about to complain more thoroughly when Jon slips off the bed and stands at its side, undoing his breeches whilst looking at her as though he were a man starved and she a full feast. Sansa is all too aware of the rapid rise and fall of her chest as he steps out of his remaining clothes, her eyes flickering down to his impressive manhood, lips parting in a twisted combination of surprise and desire. He chuckles at her reaction and grabs her ankle, tugging her playfully but firmly towards him. Subconsciously she spreads her legs and he let's out a growl as she bears her cunt to him, stepping between her thighs. 

Sansa shivers as his cock brushes against her. Impatient, she reaches down and grabs it, and Jon hisses at the touch. She slips the head of him in, and Jon's head falls to the cradle of her neck, muttering a variety of curses under his breath that in any other circumstance would earn him a glare from her. Slowly, Jon pushes himself into her, finally stilling when Sansa is well and truly stretched. She marvels at the sensation as Jon pants into her neck. He lifts his head slightly, whispering about how tight and wet and warm she is, and Sansa clenches, causing Jon to moan.

After they've both somewhat acclimated to the intoxicating feel of one another, Jon leaves her neck and looks at her with such desire that Sansa has the urge to look away. She doesn't, the tension between them palpable, as though Sansa could reach out and grab it if she wanted.

Slowly, torturously, he withdraws from her, before rutting back in at the same measured pace. Sansa can feel her body responding, the ample slick of her core growing even more to the point where the sounds that their two bodies are making are entirely obscene, but she cannot find it within her to care when Jon is still watching her with the same dark eyes.

"Jon," she breathes, entirely inarticulate, "please." Jon must take some pity on her because he starts to speed up, his pace still even and measured, but so much more gratifying.

Sansa finds her body reacting in entirely uncontrollable ways, her back arching up into Jon whilst her head lolls backwards. No matter how she writhes or mutters or moans, Jon's attention never deviates from her. Every time her eyes catch back on his, he's shifting his gaze from her cunt to her breasts to her face, lingering, before drifting back down to where their bodies meet. Somehow, the feeling of their shared eye contact is far more intimate than the hungry way Jon appreciates her body.

"You feel so good, Sansa." Jon says, followed by a particularly powerful thrust that has her clenching around him. "Fuck, love, you're pretty little cunt takes me so well. It's like you were made to take my cock, sweet girl." He rasps, and Sansa can't help but clench again, causing Jon to let out a muttered curse. He drops his head so that their foreheads are brushing, before speeding his pace up again. 

"Good girl, Sans. Just like that, sweetling. You're such a good girl for me." Jon whispers into her mouth, moaning. He captures her lips in a passionate kiss, and the feeling of being so entirely consumed by him has Sansa's brows furrowing and her cunt clenching in a way she's never experienced. Her mind goes blank as she moans a blasphemous combination of curses and praise into his mouth, her body pressing itself insistently into him as flashes of spring sunlight dance behind her eyelids.

As Sansa's euphoria eventually begins to quell, and some of her sense returns, she feels the fluctuation in Jon's strong and careful pace. His dark eyes are fluttering shut and his brows are furrowed as his face contorts in pleasure. Through her panting breath Sansa manages to rasp out his name, completely sated and satisfied, and the sound of it has Jon spending his seed deep within her.

Now, just as exhausted as she is, he collapses on top of her, burying his face back into her neck, and pressing a sweet kiss to her temple. Sansa can't hold back her soft smile, _not that she wants to_, and she can feel Jon's lips quirk similarly against her neck. Once their breath has evened out, Jon rolls off her, pushing off the bed to fetch her a warm washcloth. As she wipes herself down, he clears his throat and makes her promises of moon tea, but Sansa's gaze is already back on the sliver of spring through Jon's shutters. She shakes her head and turns to face him, bringing a tender hand back to his cheek.

"Jon, my sweet," Sansa smiles, protectively bringing her other hand to her stomach already, her mind enamoured with the idea of children with inky curls and Tully eyes. "I am tired of always being the Lady of Winterfell and the King in the North when we are together. I am sick of foreign invaders and southron lions." She pauses, wanting to memorise the tender way Jon is watching her. "Marry me, Jon. Let us finally be just Jon and Sansa. Let us enjoy the spring. We deserve it after all we've suffered." 

Jon's eyes fall to her stomach, the tenderness on his face amplified by what Sansa can only identify as hope. "All of us?" He questions quietly, and Sansa brings her hand from her stomach back to his face, cupping his cheeks softly.

"Yes," she breathes, and his eyes drag back to hers. "All of us."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading! 
> 
> I'd love to hear your thoughts on the chapter/fic as a whole! Honestly, feedback and comments are really all I am living off nowadays, so I'd really appreciate hearing anything you'd like to say. If you'd prefer to talk on tumblr, my account is @starkaligned, I'd love to talk to any of you about anything! 
> 
> Also! I am 100% open to any requests. Seriously. My creativity is kind of frazzled right now so I'd really love any prompts, concepts or ideas you might have, no matter how vague. Who knows? It might inspire me to actually write and post more frequently. My ask box is always open (yes, I'm talking to you, random anons!), or, of course, you could always just comment it here.
> 
> Anyway, thank you once again for reading! It makes me so happy that people actually enjoy the stuff that I write. I sincerely appreciate each and every one of you! :)

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! 
> 
> As always, please leave me a comment - any feedback just motivates me to write more, and maybe my next fic won't take so long to come out lol. I'm still on the fence about adding a second, more smutty chapter to this, so if that's something you'd be interested in, let me know! If it did happen, it would of course be when they were less inebriated and actually able to properly consent. :)


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